Chapter 1: pearl
Chapter Text
She remembers when news of Rose’s affair broke. A torrid, tainting scandal. The papers, funded as they were (and are) by the royal family, painted their precious Pink Diamond, only heir to the throne, as a misguided woman starved of any affection from her cold hearted wife.
Pearl had had to endure the public humiliation. While Pink—or Rose, as she preferred to be called (Pink had been her given regnal name)—had suffered the harshest castigation at the mouths of the Queen Mothers, Pearl had been thrown to the dogs of journalism.
Yellow and Blue had never much cared for her, anyway. And Rose would always be their baby, after all.
It had been… difficult. The paparazzi followed her everywhere, hoping to sell stories of a nervous breakdown or her secret plot of vengeance or something as dramatic. Neither things that actually happened, of course, but mainly because Pearl had been careful.
The child, born out of wedlock, was to join the Royal Family regardless of his paternal lineage. He was, after all, a son of the House of Diamond, and Pink had no other children. No other successor.
It’s happened before, in history, which is why, Pearl thinks, Blue and Yellow hadn’t thrown too much of a fit about it.
Steven’s status had been the one of the only things Rose fought for anyway, understanding her marriage was forever tainted to the public eye, and that whatever consequences came next were a direct result of her actions.
And to Pearl, there was no saving them . No matter how much she loved Rose, her heart had been broken.
Deep down, she’d known why Rose did it. The pressure of the crown had been too much, and… Greg had been a needed, welcome escape from her royal life. It wasn’t as if Greg had known who she really was, anyway. Besides, she isn’t sure if it was him she loved, or the freedom he stood for. But that’s neither here nor there.
To Rose, Pearl was a constant reminder of her status, her failures and her responsibilities and the million pairs of eyes watching her every move. Rose had always been bad at following the rules, doing her duty.
In another life, maybe they could have been happy, she could have been happy with Pearl. Maybe she would have been enough for Rose.
But they live in no such world.
The day Steven was born, she had cried every moment. It had been a struggle for her attendants to even get her out of bed. She had refused to accept the end of an era, so to speak. An eternal step had been taken, and there was no going back—and yet, it was all she wanted. It had been the only day she’d ever been truly drunk.
Today, Steven turns eighteen, and Pearl has grown—as she had always known she would—from hating him to loving him with all that she is.
Now, she and her attendants scramble to complete the finer details of Steven’s birthday party (something Pearl had at first, many, many years ago, been wary of, but had been convinced by her son’s pleading eyes and matching pout).
To be honest, the staff finish off the party planning. Pearl… supervises.
It’s a big deal, his eighteenth. Whispers of the court say that he’s finally becoming a man, he’s finally ready to take the crown from his poor grandmother. Pearl worries. Steven’s heart is big and loves easily, but she’s seen even the purest of intentions turn sour with lust for power and corruption.
Nothing that she has control over, however. She just hopes that her raising of him has been enough. She tells herself that if it isn’t, she still has two more years.
“Mette,” she says to one of her attendants, “wake Steven, please. Tell him to get dressed. We have an audience scheduled with his grandmother at nine o’clock.”
The woman gives a quick curtsey—that’s how everything is in this godforsaken palace, quick—and scurries away with a quiet, “yes ma’am.”
Pearl changes herself out of her nightgown (she refuses, has always refused, to have her attendant do that—she can dress herself, thank you very much), and into more proper attire.
Her day dress is plain, but pretty. Sleek, pale, and mid-calfed, it flatters her form while being modest enough for monarchy. With the added jewelry—a pearl necklace and earrings—she looks every bit a Duchess. Years have taught her how to play her part, and to play it well.
The time it takes for her to be ready is apparently how much time Steven needs as well, and not a moment after she’s fastened the final pin to her hair does he appear in her doorway.
“His Royal Highness, The Prince, ma’am,” Mette says, and Pearl waves a hand to dismiss her.
“That will be all. Leave us, please.”
Mette exits through the large double doors, presumably waiting outside for her next order. Her short, minimal steps echo through the large, empty castle.
Steven comes in, fresh faced and a smile in his eyes. “Good morning, Mother.”
“Good morning Steven,” she says, with a bow of her head. “Are you ready?”
He gives her a pained look, and she laughs, propriety mostly gone now that they’re (mostly) alone. “Not even close.”
“Me either,” she admits. “But we must, no matter how much I’m dreading it. The good thing is that I’ll be right next to you the entire time.” Squeezing his hand, she gives him an encouraging smile.
She’s surprised when he neglects to return it, however. Instead, a weary sigh leaves his lips, and her heart sinks at his next words. “But you won’t always be.”
“What do you mean?”
A knock on the other side of the door prompts her to check her watch, knowing that it’s Mette subtly telling them to get a move on. She starts walking, and Steven follows behind her, footsteps heavy with his thoughts.
“I don’t know,” he says, exasperated, “I mean that when I ascend the throne, you won’t be by my side. And, and neither will Garnet or Amethyst or—” he breaks off, looking away. “I’m gonna be alone. I… I have ideas, I do. But I… I don’t know if I, if I can do it all by myself.”
She turns her head to look at him, and he looks so sad and lost that Pearl can’t help but grab his shoulders, make him look her in the eye.
“Steven. You’re never alone, and you’re never going to be alone. Garnet can easily be given a spot in your cabinet, as your advisor or continue on as equerry or personal secretary. And Amethyst is already your primary guard, we won’t have to do much to have her stay on with you.”
She stops to wipe the barely formed tears from Steven’s eyes. “You’ll be alright.” And even though he nods, the burdened shadow still rests across his face. “You will be alright.” She hates that he has to feel this way.
Together, they exit the doors to Pearl’s private rooms, walking down the hallway side by side. “Have you been thinking about this for a while?” She asks him.
Solemnly, he nods. “Yes.”
“Is that why you can’t sleep?”
He pauses to consider her, and Pearl struck by how old he looks in his formalwear—tucked white button down under a tailored vest, complete with black ironed slacks and shiny shoes. Even his hair, allowed to roam free in his youth, has been tamed back into a low, formal ponytail.
Her heart breaks a little more at the sight. She carries on walking, trying to shake these feelings off.
“How do you know about that?”
“Garnet is a very observant person.”
“...Makes sense. What else has she told you?”
“Nothing else comes to mind right now, Steven.”
Steven grins at her, hands clasped behind his back. “I can’t help but feel like you’re lying.”
“If I am, it’s only for your benefit. And that I’m getting old.” Steven laughs again, like she’s making a joke, and Pearl smiles at the sound. “I’m serious, my memory isn’t what it used to be.”
“Selective, then.”
“Among others, a word I would use, yes.”
“What a fancy way to say you agree with me.”
“Everything about us is fancy, Steven. Have you seen us?”
The echoes of his laughter follows them all the way down the hall.
When they walk through the doors to the Queen’s parlor—not her office, not at this time of day—she’s waiting very severely as she holds a cup of tea between her fingers.
“Mother,” Pearl says as she curtseys. She doesn’t like calling her that just as much as Yellow dislikes hearing it, but it’s what’s proper, and they will always have to do what is proper.
“Pearl,” she says with a curl of her wrist, asking her to sit down. Which she does. Steven follows her lead, as he always does.
“Grandma.”
Steven doesn’t have the same reservations with his grandmother, greeting her with an open smile and wave. Yellow smiles, as she does only when Steven or her wife are involved.
“Steven. Nice to see you. Have some tea.”
He tilts her head, noticing something wrong with the stiffness of her posture and the crease of her brow (though to Pearl’s untrained eye, she looks no different than normal), and asks, “what is it?”
Yellow sighs, as if she’s been dreading this moment. Though Pearl has her own thoughts about Yellow, there has never been a doubt in her mind that she loves her grandson with all her heart. Whatever this news is, it’s going to hurt him. “I… Well, as you know, I have been on the throne for many years—additional time since your mother… passed away.”
“Yes,” says Steven uncertainty. Pearl takes a sip of her tea.
Yellow clears her throat, forcing herself to look Steven in the eye. “Right. There’s really no way to break this to you gently, so I might as well get on with it. I am stepping down from the throne. Your nana and I have discussed it at length, and, especially in light of my recent… health scares, she believes—” Yellow breaks off, and Pearl senses that this matter is delving into issues much more private.
Though, Pearl does have a vague idea of what Blue believes, as does Steven. She had made it quite clear, during private dinners or moments in her palanquin on the rare occasion she left the palace, that she believed Yellow worked too hard, did too much. And was too “bloody stubborn” to take a break.
Blue’s words, not hers.
But, Pearl supposes, being on the throne for so long does that to a person. It’s all Yellow’s ever known, after taking over for her senile mother at the age of fifteen, the crown and all it’s responsibilities have sat on her head.
Often, Pearl wonders how she’d done it, growing up with the crown and being the reigning monarch. Puberty must have been especially hard, falling in love and the shy sort of courtship that comes with it, and Pearl knows just how much Yellow despises the spotlight.
She had meant to retire when Rose turned twenty, which she had done… briefly. Yellow enjoyed five years free of stress (Pearl is assuming), before Rose had gotten pregnant and she’d had to deal with the huge scandal that was her daughter's affair.
And then, Rose passed away, and with Steven being so little, Yellow had had to fill the role of Queen Regent. It was clear to everyone how much it drained her to do so.
But as always, needs must. She had a duty as they all do, and duty comes first.
Sometimes, all Pearl feels towards her duty is hatred, watching the bridges it burns and the relationships it destroys. Duty is a dangerous fire, spreading like an unstoppable infestation.
“ We believe,” Yellow continues after a short pause, but Pearl has already started to put the pieces together, “that Steven is ready to be—”
“No,” she says, standing up.
“I haven’t finished, Pearl.”
“You were going to say that he’s ready to be anointed King.”
“Not in those exact words,” Yellow snaps. “But yes, Steven is ready.”
“No,” Pearl says again, just as quickly, as stonily as before, and Yellow glares at her.
They’ve built a good rapport over these few years, a steady but fragile middle ground. Pearl has a feeling that this is the moment that crumbles all of that to ruins.
“You can’t. Rose’s last wish was for Steven not to be burdened with crown and country until he turned twenty-one! At least!”
“And yet, she was happy for him to live in all the comforts of palace life! If Pink didn’t want him to take over these duties, she should have denied him his birthright.”
“Steven is eighteen ! He’s too young! And the will—”
“Can be overlooked if the situation is dire enough! And the situation is more than dire. Two strokes in a month can clearly attest to that!”
She gets up, starts pacing. Yellow takes a deep breath, needing to relax herself before she says anything both of them will regret. Steven only watches the scene with worried eyes.
“Pearl,” Yellow says, stern but imploring, “I understand. Truly, I do. But the people of this country deserve a monarch of sound mind and body. It is their constitutional right. My physicality has been corrupted. I’m no longer fit to rule, and I can’t rule forever.”
“I’m not asking for forever,” Pearl says, stopping her steps to look Yellow in the eye, to ask for just a little longer. “Two more years. Please.”
A moment’s hesitation, before a final shake of the head.
“I’m sorry. It will be done.”
Steven shifts uncomfortably between them, and Pearl wants to put her face in her palms. She’d forgotten about the very thing—the very person—she was fighting so strongly for.
Both women turn to him, eyes expectant. “That is, with His Royal Highness’ consent, of course,” Yellow says, clearly expecting the consent to be freely given. “Remember what we talked about.”
“ What did you talk about— ”
“Hush, Steven has something to say.”
“I…”
He looks shocked, confused. Lost. And all Pearl wants to do is turn the clock back, back to when he was ten years old and had nothing to worry about but growing up. Now, the weight of the world rests on his shoulders.
“Take your time, Steven,” she says, kindly. “Just remember, this decision you make will determine the course of the rest of your life.”
“Whew, okay,” Steven says, in that joking way that he does to keep things light. “Big choices. Um, can I take some time to think about it?”
Both mother and grandmother nod.
Satisfied, Yellow waves a hand in her general direction. “You may leave, Pearl. Steven and I have a few things to discuss.”
“But, Mother—”
“That will be all, Pearl.”
Pearl huffs, but does as she’s told. After all, Steven isn’t exactly ‘King’ yet.
The door slams closed behind her.
Outside, her equerry is waiting.
“Bismuth?”
“Princess.”
She rolls her eyes good-naturedly as she tears a path down to her quarters. “You know that’s not my name.”
“Alright, fine,” Bismuth says, following behind, not letting the signature grin make itself known on her face. Pearl can see it coming from the wrinkle of her nose, the crease of her eyes. “My apologies, Princess Pearl, Duchess of Florencia.”
“ Bismuth ,” Pearl sighs.
“Princess,” Bismuth shoots back, a charming smile hidden in her eyes.
“You’re entirely impossible, you know that?”
She guffaws best she can in the quiet hallway, punctuated by the clicking of Pearl’s white heeled shoes. “I’ve been told. Mostly by you.”
Behind them, Pearl hears a guard smother her laughter. It’s almost enough to lift the heaviness of her heart.
“We are not to be disturbed,” she orders the doorman when they arrive at the double doors of her rooms (though, she isn’t sure if that’s what they’re actually called—but oh, it’ll be fine). “Bismuth and I will be discussing my next meeting with the Head Minister.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the doorman says, averting their gaze.
When the doors finally close, she lets out a breath, but she doesn’t feel any less tense. She hasn’t had time to think about things, to process the situation at hand, and that thought alone is enough to make her hands shake
She doesn’t want Steven to be King yet, but does that make her selfish? He’d looked at her like he was trying to figure out what she wanted, what both she and Yellow wanted. But he knows what he wants, doesn’t he? Is she being too pushy?
Pearl certainly doesn’t think so but…
Oh, she’s just desperate to keep her little Steven, just a while longer. Just while he figures things out.
“Hey,” Bismuth says quietly, gently tracing a finger along the back of her neck, where her dress is tied together. “You alright?”
Pearl squeezes her eyes shut. “Do you think I have trouble letting go of things?” She asks, rather abruptly, arms crossed around her middle, back facing Bismuth.
There’s a silence, where she knows Bismuth is truly thinking it over, and Pearl forces herself to relax. “Maybe,” Bismuth says. She turns around, and Bismuth sees her hurt, lost face, and softens. “I can’t give you the answer to that, Pearl. All I know is that you care, a lot. Maybe too much, but isn’t that what we need? It’s better to care too much than to not give a damn, by a long shot.”
The answer is so concise, so believed by its giver that she almost believes it too.
She leaps into Bismuth’s arms.
“Woah,” her equerry says, hands immediately going to Pearl’s waist to steady them both, as it has hundreds of times before. “Not that you’ll find me complaining, but what’s this all about?”
When she pulls away, the tears must already have gathered, because Bismuth’s entire face melts at the sight. “Hey now, what’s wrong?”
She sniffs again, hoping to clear the water from her eyes and horrified to see that it has the opposite effect.
“Pearl,” Bismuth says, and she sounds so sweet, so warm, so caring, that she buries herself in the larger woman’s embrace again. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“It’s Steven.”
Bismuth gives her a kiss on her forehead. “He okay?”
“Yes, yes, he’s fine. It’s just, oh Bismuth,” she wails, and her tears are flowing freely again into Bismuth’s poor uniformed shoulder. “Yellow wants him to be anointed. Now . He’s only eighteen! He can’t be expected to carry such a large burden of responsibility! He needs to be able to grow up, and I promised he’d get to grow up. Normally! And he’ll be so under the public scrutiny, I—”
“Breathe, Pearl,” she hears over the sound of blood rushing through her head, the pounding of her heart over the ringing headache her tears bring. Bismuth’s hands rub up and down her back soothingly. “ Breathe. ”
“I just,” Pearl says, looking up at her tearfully, “I want him to be my little boy, just for a while longer.”
Another kiss is planted on her head, and Pearl eases, just the slightest.
“Do you think he’s ready?” Bismuth asks.
“I don’t know,” she says exasperatedly. “There’s so much to consider. His age, the public, his friends—or lack thereof, I suppose—”
“ Pearl ,” Bismuth says again, holding her by the shoulders and stopping her rambles of nonsense. “Do you think he’s ready? Ignorin’ all that other stuff. If he had to take over right now , would you be worried about him? As a King.”
She sighs to herself.
That’s the problem, isn’t it? She knows, deep down she truly knows, that Steven is ready. He’ll be the best thing to happen to this monarchy, she knows that too, believes it with all her might—and she doesn’t just say it because she’s biased as his mother.
He’s an extraordinary force of nature, because he believes himself to be so unbelievably unextraordinary. Because he so willingly, so easily adapts to change.
That doesn’t mean she has to like it.
“No,” she admits. “I wouldn’t be worried.”
“There,” Bismuth says with finality, and Pearl kisses her cheek with gratitude. Her finality, her assurance, is so grounding when she feels so lost in the unknown. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. You’ll still be with him, when he is King. No matter when that is.”
The hand in her own, large and dry, is comforting. Feels like home. There’s a pang in her chest when she allows herself to be selfish, and remember that their relationship… is always, was always going to be finite.
But now, with Steven’s anointment apparently so close around the corner, she’s given a stark reminder that this comfortable, fantastic, incredibly deep love she’s found is rapidly nearing the end of its course. She may always be by Steven’s side, but Bismuth won’t always be by hers .
With Steven’s rule comes the end of the comfortable backseat Pearl has been enjoying for the past few years, bringing her out into the open again, into the public eye. Her relationship with Bismuth doesn’t deserve that.
Pearl isn’t ready.
She pulls Bismuth closer, fingers tangling in the tiny curls around the base of her neck. “I love you,” she breathes as she kisses her like a lifeline, like her lips have gifted her the secret to unbearable completeness, like a desperate orison.
“I love you so much,” she says again, between their stolen kisses, and Bismuth’s hands tighten around her back. Pearl tries to pour every ounce of her love, her thankfulness, her gratitude at the other woman’s ability to pull her away from the proverbial edge, into each press of lips against hers.
Her love needs to be known, the fact that she loves the woman so wholly, so restlessly. And that she would never want to leave her; she would much rather draw her last breath than live the rest of her life without her heart.
But she can’t say that, not yet. She doesn’t know when she’ll ever be ready. If at all.
Bismuth seems to understand, though, pushing against her, almost supporting her entire weight. Pearl kisses her harder, lips parting under her gently probing tongue.
“Take me to bed,” Pearl breathes, and Bismuth smiles.
“It’s midday,” she says, nosing at a long, pale neck.
She runs her fingers through thick, coloured cornrows, walking backwards onto the bed and bringing Bismuth with her, soft laughter ringing through the room.
“Hmm,” Pearl says playfully with a whisper, “better make it quick then.”
Another, louder laugh, and Pearl almost squeals as she’s tackled onto the bed, Bismuth climbing atop her. “Yes, ma’am.”
The world of anointments and sons and secret relationships is forgotten, for a while, as they’re swept up in the sweet relief of pure, unconditional existence.
Chapter 2: yellow
Summary:
i want someone to be in love with me the way yellow is so utterly in love with blue. also, ‘My Langan Love’ is an irish folk song that lisa hannigan has actually sung. go listen :)
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Blue wakes before the sun has fully risen, just more than half of it peeking over the skyline. She had been roused by the simple action of Yellow pulling away from her sleeping embrace, dressing herself in underclothes and a button-down shirt, lest the attendants enter without warning (which they do more regularly than either would like).
“Come back to bed,” she calls, enticingly, sleepily, and Yellow is weak. She is always weak for Blue. She could not even fathom refusing.
Her wife looks so inviting, entwined with the satin sheets of their bed; white hair almost seems to shine in the morning sunlight, brown skin that Yellow knows to be soft to the touch contrasts ethereally with the cream fabric she sparsely covers herself with.
Blue is beautiful, breathtaking even after all these years— especially after all these years. Her wife has aged with grace, with dignity, and Yellow is as in love as she was that first moment she’d laid her eyes on Blue. Love at first sight had been an impossibility, a ridiculous notion, before she had met her.
She leans down, places butterfly kisses on eyelids that flutter open, follows laughter lines with the tip of her sharp nose. Her wife stirs again. Always so beautiful.
“It’s too early,” she complains in her lilted voice, and Yellow kisses her once on the lips. Blue hums happily. “ Stay .”
Yellow laughs a little, for no reason other than she is overtaken by so much joy. She takes Blue’s hands in her own, interlacing their fingers. As always, she is cold to the touch, almost as cold as the silver ring on Blue’s fourth finger. Constantly, Yellow is enthralled by the softness of her hands—just as soft as the rest of her.
She is restless, though, desperate to touch just for the sake of it. To feel every inch of Blue, her realness and her quiet elegance and her beautiful strength. She never wants to lose this. She lets go of Blue’s fingers, hands trailing a path upwards instead, feeling her arms and moving to cup her jaw, caressing with a thumb, before making their way to the strands of Blue’s gleaming white hair that slip through her fingers like silk.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she murmurs, crawling over her on the bed.
This makes Blue lift her head and properly open her eyes, bringing them nose to nose. “Oh?”
“Oh,” Yellow confirms. Blue lays back down against the pillows, painting an absolutely alluring picture, humming happily. “The benefit of this… arrangement with Steven… is that I can force him to take the morning shift.”
The ‘arrangement’ in question had been one Steven had come up with relatively quickly, in an effort to please both parties, though Yellow thinks he truly would not be opposed to taking over the throne now—if not for his mother. And true to his nature, the simple solution laid out the middle ground quite nicely.
Yellow would continue as Regent for the next two years, but it had been announced that Steven would have a heavy hand in assisting—a co ruler, so to speak. It has never been done before.
Which, to be honest, is just the kind of precedent she has come to expect Steven to set.
“You are getting too old to be up so early,” Blue says in agreement, a smile in her voice, and Yellow pinches her hip. Her wife only laughs, a ringing kind of sound, akin to rainfall and silver-bells, and links her arms behind Yellow’s neck, pulling her closer. “So I take it you’re pleased with the compromise?”
She huffs, leaning her forehead in the crook of Blue’s neck and shoulder. “It will be enough. That grandson of yours is as stubborn as an ox.”
“I do wonder where he gets it,” Blue comments dryly.
“Obviously, Pearl,” Yellow answers.
Blue snorts, but lets the matter rest.
Her fingers start combing through Yellow’s cropped blonde hair, tugging gently at strands in a way that threaten to put her back to sleep. The way Blue’s fingernails scrape against her skull is incredibly gratifying. Her eyelids start drooping dangerously, so she begins nosing at Blue’s subtle collarbones.
Not for the first time, she understands how sailors could be called to their deaths by ocean nymphs, if those nymphs were half as tempting, as captivating as her wife. She smiles into Blue’s neck.
She feels her sigh of contentment vibrating through her bones, and tries to remember the last time they just… lay like this. Had a moment to themselves. Surely months before Pink was born, and perhaps even as far back as their youth.
No matter. Yellow allows herself to be swept up in the present, listening to Blue’s breathing, feeling the rise and fall of her chest, and appreciating the hushed, unmistakable sound of her beginning to hum.
Blue has always had a lovely voice, Yellow thinks—though her wife will vehemently disagree with her on this point, and refute that Yellow is better. Much like everything about her, Blue sings softly, liltingly, like a siren who wishes not to be heard.
It’s a folk song, Yellow thinks. She’s familiar with the tune, her wife sings it often enough. Though she can never quite grasp the words. The lyrics are quite too abstract, whimsical , to clearly comprehend.
“ Where Lagan stream sings lullaby
There blows a lily fair,
The twilight gleam is in her eye
The night is on her hair,
And like a love-sick lennan-shee
She has my heart in thrall
Nor life I owe nor liberty
With love is lord of all. ”
She is loath to interrupt, but the love bubbles up from her chest and the words fall out of her mouth before she can stop them, not that she particularly wants to. “I love you,” she says, kissing the nape of Blue’s neck. "I love you, most ardently."
If she could, she would stay here forever, in this moment.
Her wife laughs, the sweet bell ringing again, and whispers, “I love you, too.”
The attendants barge in a few moments later, and Yellow barks at them to leave, pulling the cover above Blue, to protect her modesty. On her part, she only giggles, pulling her wife down again for one last kiss before their day begins. Their attendants are allowed back in once they part.
They are dressed quickly. Yellow in her casual chinos and waistcoat, and Blue in her floor-length day dress. As always, they carry on their conversations stiltedly, formally but intimately.
“Oh, and don’t forget,” Blue says as Margaux and Etta finish polishing up their appearances, cuffing Yellow’s sleeves and fastening Blue’s necklaces. The crown sits solemnly on her desk, Blue’s tiara daintily next to it. It’s been tradition to wear it day-to-day for centuries. “Your mother wishes to see us after breakfast.”
“Another stroke would be preferable,” Yellow says without thinking, and the mood sours almost instantly. Such is the tendency with the mention of her mother. “I may retch all over the beautiful carpet.”
A swift slap is delivered to her arm, and her beloved is looking at her, brows furrowed. “ Do not joke about that.”
Yellow rolls her eyes. “I didn’t realise you were so attached to the carpet,” she quips.
“Not the retching, Yellow.”
She nods, smiling amusedly to herself, though she’s sure her wife can see it from the glaring holes she can feel at the side of her head. “And besides, I was not joking. I never joke .”
Blue humphs, which she rarely does. Yellow almost feels apologetic. “Either way, I’d stray far from it. You might make words a reality, especially considering your condition.”
She waves off Blue’s superstitions, more than used to it by now. “I’m fine , Blue.”
“Yes,” she says, stepping in front of Yellow’s line of vision, to Etta’s chagrin—who had been fixing her hair. “You were fine last time and you ended up in the hospital, so excuse me if I’m a wee bit skeptical. Strokes are a serious concern, Dear. I worry about you.”
That softens her a little, and she places a hand atop Blue’s folded ones. It’s all she will do in front of the attendants, and Blue knows that. It does not, however, make her soften like she usually does at Yellow’s touch. “I’m taking it seriously, Darling.”
“Then take a break. A proper break,” she says before Yellow can insist that she is taking one.
“There is work to be done—”
“There is always work to be done, and there will always be work to be done. I’m tired of you treating your health as a secondary concern.” It’s as close to a shout as Blue will come, her voice still melodiously, deceptively calm and hauntingly beautiful even in the depths of anger.
An age-old argument, and Yellow’s sigh reverberates through her weary bones. “Blue—”
“That will be all,” she says, cutting her off with a wave, and turns. Etta follows at her heels, and Yellow is left there, staring after them.
Breakfast is an awkward affair.
It is clear to all in the room, even the attendants and servants, that Blue is… in a mood. She doesn’t speak or throw a fit, but it is abundantly obvious that she’s unhappy.
Steven, as he does, immediately picks up on the tensions and tries to lessen them. It’s a futile attempt, but she supposes it’s the heart behind it that matters.
“You know,” he’s saying all of a sudden, “ever since we made the announcement, the press has been completely off the rails.”
Yellow doesn’t have to ask which announcement this is; there is only one that could have inspired the revival of the dogs. Pearl deciding she would no longer be a recluse is hardly frontpage-worthy, after all.
“Really?” Blue asks, completely ignoring her wife sitting between them at the head of the table.
“Yeah! We’ve been getting media requests non-stop. Garnet and I had to comb through them all yesterday.”
“Is she an adequate secretary?” Yellow asks, wanting to fill the silence. Garnet had been appointed his personal secretary last week, at Head Minister Sapphire’s recommendation. She’d been weary, but Blue fully trusts the woman’s judgement.
“Yes, she’s great! Very wise. And it was a small adjustment, since, you know, she was already my equerry.”
“Right,” Yellow says, feeling foolish. “How are you getting on with the media requests, then?”
“Quite well,” Steven answers. “We’ve sorted them from urgent to less urgent, and also most reputable to… you know… less so. Well actually, more of the last thing.”
“Okay,” Blue says, nodding along, “so what have you decided on?”
“Well, obviously we’d have to do BBC , kind of the biggest news company worldwide. There’s also the New York Times , The Independent , and other things like that. And there’s the typical like Daily Mail etc, and other small up and coming news sites.”
“Such as…?”
Steven is briefly apprehensive, curling into his shoulders for a second before remembering his posture. “Uh, well one we were looking at was Beach City Reporter . It’s a very small—”
“Beach City?” Blue drawls, a raised eyebrow.
“Yeah, it’s where Dad was born…”
Yellow scoffs. “Yes, we know.”
“Before you say anything else, Mother,” Pearl finally butts in, “Steven is free to make his own choices if it is within the decided jurisdiction.”
“Yes, I know —” Yellow says again, but Steven anxiously interrupts.
“I’ve already decided, Grandmother. We’ve set up a meeting for next Tuesday.”
“That’s in four days,” Blue says, obviously disapproving.
Steven nods. “I know,” he says, and that’s unfortunately the end of that conversation.
The hallway to mother’s rooms smells like smoke, which indicates that she’s been smoking again. Even with her doctor’s strong recommendation that she stop, it seems she won’t budge.
No matter, it’s her funeral.
Though Yellow will unfortunately be the one to organise it.
Thankfully, after that whole ordeal during breakfast, Blue has either forgotten to stay annoyed at her, or just can’t be bothered anymore. Her hand hangs onto her bicep, which she knows will later fall to be tucked into an elbow, and they walk side by side.
“That boy,” Blue mutters.
“Indeed,” Yellow says. “Though I suppose I am at fault here; I did tell him to begin making his own decisions.”
“Oh, but how reckless his decisions are!”
“He’ll have to deal with the consequences, Darling.” She should probably put a stop to this conversation before they get to her mother’s bedroom. Unsolicited, terrible advice is not what Yellow is in the mood for right now. “Mother,” she calls, the sound echoing through the halls.
A moment passes before an answering, “here,” is said back. Not above speaking volume, though—White has never been the type.
The soft kiss Blue places on her shoulder is relatively calming. Her hands begin to massage the place her lips had been, and she does relax a little—though, not by much. “You’re so tense,” Blue whispers, aware of how close they are to White’s bedroom.
“I wonder why,” is the dry reply, and her wife giggles into the back of her shoulder before pressing another kiss there, in the centre, just on her spine. Even after all these years, the sight and feel is unbelievably endearing. She can’t help but smile to herself, turning to place a soft, chaste kiss on Blue’s cold lips.
Coughing from the other side of the door interrupts, and Yellow would be mad if it were anyone but her own mother. “Will you two stop necking for a moment and enter already? Unfortunately, time waits for no woman, not even me.”
“Yes, we know, Mother,” Yellow says, and silently groans as she crosses the threshold of her mother’s private bedroom.
“Ah, here you are,” White says as they take a seat on either side of her. “Let me have a look at you.”
“I’m sure we look the same, Mother,” Blue says.
“Ah, ah, that’s ‘Mother’ with a ‘T-H.’ Not a ‘D,’ dear.” Yellow clenches her fist. White’s always been like this; passive aggressively ridiculing Blue’s accent (which Yellow finds extraordinarily beautiful) has always been a favourite pastime. And even though it’s been years, she knows it still stings for Blue. She’s usually careful, but they haven’t visited Mother in a while.
“Yes, Mother.”
“That’s better. Now, how has my daughter been?” White asks, taking a drag of her cigarette. “Any more health issues? You know, if you’d done as I said, you wouldn’t have had to deal with such things so early in life, dear.”
“High stress generally comes with having to rule a country, Mother.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Her mother snaps back, conveniently forgetting the years Yellow had had to take over for her after her inability to remain sane. Blue moves to hold her hand and squeezes.
“Of course you do,” Yellow appeases. She watches as White puts out another cigarette, rubbing it into the ashtray located conveniently on her bedside table. In her head, she makes a note to have a word with whoever placed that there. “You should really stop smoking, you know. Your doctors—”
“My doctors are needlessly worried over trivial matters. What use is concern about my smoking if I’m just going to die anyway?”
“Mother—”
“Oh, and don’t think I haven’t heard about Steven’s plans.”
Wonderful .
It takes all her willpower not to groan or leave the room immediately.
“You have neglected to inform me of this new… arrangement.” Yellow stifles an incredulous smile at her mother using the same language as she had—Blue seems to notice, as well, as she sees her lips press together in an effort to hide a smile. “But I have eyes everywhere , Yellow-dear.”
A pause as Yellow tries to think about what to say. “I had meant to tell you.”
White scoffs at her. “Excuses are not becoming of a queen, you know that.”
“I am over fifty-years-old.”
“Never too late for a new consort—”
“ Mother! You will not talk of Blue that way!”
“Oh, look at her,” her mother snaps tiredly, and even though this is far from a new opinion from White, Yellow feels her temper fly dangerously. “She has you wrapped around her little finger, and what does she do with it?” The ‘ nothing’ she would have spat is implied, but makes Yellow clench her jaw anyway. “You are strong, Yellow. But she makes you weak.”
“I am right here, White,” Blue says tiredly. It is upsetting, infuriating that Blue is used to being treated this way.
“Yes, I am aware.” She just couldn't give a shit. Yellow squeezes the hand in her own, cold to the touch and satin-soft.
“Mother, it’s high time you learnt that you are no longer relevant. No one comes to you to hold court or advice—that is Blue’s job, and has been for years. We do not answer to you, and all this acting out achieves nothing.” She stands, ready for this conversation to end.
Her wife, angel she is, pulls her back down. She grumbles, but does—their hands never leave each other.
White hums semi-approvingly. “At least she has some sense left in her. You, as I can clearly see, are becoming senile, dear. As for my dear great-grandson’s plans…”
The ever-suffering groan struggles to break to the surface, but she is strong enough to stamp it down. “Yes. We came to a compromise, which, I will reiterate, has very little to do with you.”
“If it is a royal matter, it has everything to do with me,” White says.
Yellow knows that tone of voice: it is her mother preparing to give her yet another pointless lecture, just as she did when Yellow had been but a child.
Before she can even open her mouth again, however, Yellow’s attendant knocks on the door. She knows it is her attendant because the knocks are brief and efficient—just as Margaux always is.
“We must take our leave, Mother,” Yellow says, trying to inject just enough faux regret in her tone for her mother to believe she is actually sorry to leave, when in reality it is the opposite. “I have a scheduled appointment with another Head of State. And Blue must hold her attendance at court.”
White scoffs, but waves her hand anyway. “Yes, yes, alright, you’ve made your point. Your country comes before your mother.”
“I…” This feels like a trick statement. A paradox. Instead she stays silent, not willing to fall into her mother’s trap. “We will visit you next week, as always.”
“That will be all,” her mother dismisses, as if she hadn’t heard.
When the door closes behind them, Yellow can finally release a breath.
This is Steven’s first interview by himself.
Well, he says that, but Garnet is over his shoulder, just far enough away to not make him feel crowded or coddled, but close enough for him to feel like she’s there to support him, just in case he makes the wrong move, says the wrong thing.
“Good afternoon, Your Majesty,” the interviewer says. A few years ago, the title would have made him uncomfortable, but, just like so many other things, he’s gotten used to it. His interviewer seems nice, though. And she’s pretty, too, but he ignores that thought.
“Hey.” Shoot, that was too casual. C’mon Steven, you can save this. “I, uh, I mean, good afternoon to you, too. How are you?”
Another glance at the interviewer lets him know that she’s younger than he’d initially thought.
“Good,” she says cheerily, and her more casual tone puts him more at ease. “I’m Connie, by the way. Connie Maheswaren with Beach City Reporter . How are you, Your Grace?”
“Pretty good,” Steven says, then he remembers what Garnet had told him before, about being honest with his people. About his people deserving honesty. “Though, to be frank, I’m a little nervous. This is my first solo interview.”
“Oh. Well, we’re honoured to be your first one,” says Connie, quickly recovering from her very brief shock. Steven’s a little envious at her easy professionalism, especially considering how young she looks. He wants to know, is curious, as always.
“If you don’t mind me asking, how old are you?”
Connie doesn’t seem to be fazed by this question. He assumes she gets asked about it a lot. Though, he still feels bad about it. “I’m seventeen.”
“That seems a little young to be a reporter.”
“Oh, I’m doing it as extra credit for my college.”
“You’re going to college? But you’re so…”
“Young?”
“Well, yeah. Sorry,” he says, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck. Connie takes his foot-in-mouth syndrome with grace, though.
“That’s okay, I am pretty young. But my mom says it’s time to move on. I’ve already done all I can in High School, now I have the potential to learn so much more! …Uh, oops. Sorry, I got carried away. I just love learning so much !”
Steven laughs kindly.
“I’m sure you understand,” Connie says. “You’re going to college soon, right? Since you’re eighteen already?”
“Oh. Um, no.”
“You’re not?”
“No, I… Well… It’s complicated,” he says, trying to shake it off with a joking smile and sheepish laugh.
Connie seems to have a lot of experience with interviews, though, because she doesn’t let the awkward atmosphere settle into their conversation, instead taking control of it and pushing it in a direction more comfortable for him. Steven wants to ask how she knows to do that, but he at least knows enough to realise that that would make it awkward again.
“How are you feeling about the plan for the monarchy in these next few years? If I’m not wrong, weren’t you the one to come up with that solution? Well done, by the way!”
“Thanks,” Steven says, mirroring her smile, which is bright and so unbelievably genuine. “I’m feeling pretty great about it, actually. My grandmother, the Queen—obviously—, was originally planning for me to ascend the throne this year, but I know she didn’t feel great about it being so sudden. With this compromise, we’re able to put the transition in motion more smoothly, so there isn’t as big a change for us and the country.”
“That’s an excellent point!”
“Thanks again.”
Connie smiles for a moment, before looking down at her notes for a half second. “Do you miss Beach City? Our readers are curious to know what the future king thinks about our little town. I know you lived there for a while.”
The time he’d lived there, back when he was a kid and the world was so much… smaller, were some of the greatest years of his life. Because of the last wishes of his late mother, Yellow had granted Pearl the ability to raise Steven away from the throne for a few years—until he was seven—and in contact with his father.
Sometimes, he wishes he could go back.
“Oh, yeah,” says Steven after a moment. “All the time. Beach City was the most peaceful place I’ve ever been, I mean, in my own opinion of course. So quiet and… nice, you know? So… serene. But,” he says, clearing his throat, “of course, I was only a toddler. I haven’t been back in a while, unfortunately.”
Something he says must intrigue Connie, because her eyebrows furrow downwards for just a moment, before she recovers and her passive, pleasant mask falls over her face again. She doesn’t mention it, whatever ‘it’ is.
The rest of the interview, thankfully, passes smoothly, and Steven doesn’t have to think about it ever again.
He finds that he does, though.
Notes:
yes, that was a pride and prejudice reference.
ShiftingTribemaster on Chapter 2 Sat 25 May 2024 05:33PM UTC
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ShiftingTribemaster on Chapter 2 Fri 19 Jul 2024 03:14AM UTC
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